


I Made a Fist and Not a Plan

by Boxstorm



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boxstorm/pseuds/Boxstorm
Summary: Geralt has been on the Path long enough to know when a man intends to start trouble, and the man in the opposite corner of the tavern they've found themselves in is approximately one drink away from throwing caution to the wind and approaching.It's possible he has a contract for Geralt, but it's more likely that he has a few choice words about Witchers to share and not enough sense to keep them to himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 193





	I Made a Fist and Not a Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Wrecking Ball by Mother Mother, which inspired this work in the first place and is just generally a fun song.

Geralt has been on the Path long enough to know when a man intends to start trouble, and the man in the opposite corner of the tavern they've found themselves in is approximately one drink away from throwing caution to the wind and approaching.

It's possible he has a contract for Geralt, but it's more likely that he has a few choice words about Witchers to share and not enough sense to keep them to himself.

As if by clockwork, the man finishes his drink, and starts his approach.

"We don't need your kind in our town, Witcher," The man says, with a foolish bravery born of bigotry and drink.

Geralt says nothing.

Jaskier, on the other hand, sniffs haughtily, putting on all of the airs of the Viscount he once told Geralt he is. In moments like these Geralt may actually believe it.

"You may want to check with your Alderman, sir, before making pronouncements about who is and isn't welcome in your town," Jaskier says, "Or perhaps with the chandler's grieving widow and children. Or will you be ridding this town of its wraith yourself?"

There's a moment where Geralt thinks this may have been enough to turn the man away, a moment where the man hesitates, but it seems that, ultimately, the man hasn't the sense he was born with.

"You should know best of all, Bard," the man says, "The beast you travel with is not fit for polite society."

"One of us is not fit for polite society," Jaskier says coolly, "but it isn't Geralt. I suggest you walk away before you find out whether it's me or you."

"My quarrel is not with you, Bard," the man says, even as he insists on continuing to argue his point with the only half of their duo responding, "Take your pet and go."

"My _friend_ ," Jaskier says, emphasizing the change in descriptor in what Geralt feels is a surprising amount of optimism for the direction of this conversation, "is here to provide a service. We shall leave only when that service has been provided."

The man snorts inelegantly.

"I'm sure your _friend_ provides _many_ _services_. That is-,"

How the man intended to finish that sentence, Geralt will never know.

Jaskier is up and over the table with his fist making forceful contact with the man's face before the man has time to realize what's happening.

The man falls to the floor and Jaskier follows after, pinning the man to the ground and punching him again before Geralt has the sense to stand and try to intervene.

Unfortunately for Jaskier (or perhaps more unfortunately for the man pinned beneath him), several other tavern patrons take this as their cue to get involved, and Geralt has his hands full for a moment trying to incapacitate three drunk men without accidentally killing anyone.

By the time Geralt has two of the men unconscious and the third backing off with his hands raised in a bid to stay mostly intact, Jaskier has given up on the bloodied man on the floor and taken out a second man on his own.

Jaskier grins at Geralt, teeth bloodied, and wipes the back of his hand across the corner of his mouth, brushing off the bead of blood collecting there. Geralt frowns against the heat pooling low in his stomach and takes stock of the rest of the tavern instead.

No one else seems particularly interested in taking on either one of them, and Geralt uses the moment of quiet to grab Jaskier by the back of his doublet and steer him towards the door of the tavern, dropping several more gold coins onto the table than their meals and drinks had been worth, but he and Jaskier have been chased out of enough towns and he would like to be able to return to this one at some point if needed.

He drops his hand back to his side as they step out into the cool night air, trusting Jaskier to follow him back to the Inn without additional dramatics.

Jaskier is quiet for the short walk, not humming under his breath or regaling Geralt with the tale of the second man he'd fought while Geralt had been otherwise occupied, which should be Geralt's first hint that something is wrong.

When Geralt lets them into the room, lighting the candles with a snap of his fingers and bathing the room in a soft golden glow, and Jaskier still hasn't spoken, he's convinced that concern is warranted.

"What's wrong?" Geralt asks, stopping Jaskier's track across the room with a hand to his chest.

"Hmm?" Jaskier says, clearly distracted by something, "Oh, nothing, darling, I'm fine."

"You're quiet," Geralt says, accusation clear.

"It's nothing," Jaskier insists, "Really, I'm fine."

Jaskier turns towards his pack and slowly, stiffly begins undoing the multitude of buttons keeping his doublet closed.

Geralt reaches out and grabs Jaskier's right hand in his before he thinks about it.

Jaskier's hiss of pain confirms Geralt's suspicions.

"You're hurt," Geralt says, loosening his grip on Jaskier's hand and turning it over to run gentle fingers over Jaskier's scraped knuckles.

"It's-," Jaskier starts, then stops at Geralt's unimpressed glare, "I had thought that stupidity caused by a head made of stone was nothing more than metaphorical prose, but it seems, at least in the case of one of those brutes, to be somewhat more literal."

"I may have broken my hand," he adds, at a look from Geralt that both of them understand to mean 'speak plainly'.

Geralt gently manipulates Jaskier's hand in his own, feeling for any signs of broken bones or other damage.

"It isn't broken," Geralt says.

"Oh," Jaskier says, voice coming out breathless for reasons Geralt forces himself not to contemplate, "That's good."

"It will bruise," Geralt says, "and we should clean it before it becomes infected."

"Right," Jaskier says, "infection. I should consider that the next time I punch someone to defend your honour."

It's meant to be a joke, but sounds frighteningly sincere to Geralt in this moment.

"You shouldn't be punching anyone," Geralt says, "least of all to protect my honour."

"Well someone has to," Jaskier grouses, "and clearly you're not jumping to do it."

Geralt holds Jaskier's gaze for a moment too long, feeling that same simmering heat building between them and he realizes with a start that he's still holding Jaskier's hand.

He drops it like he's been bitten, and turns away sharply to busy himself digging in his own pack for disinfecting balm and a roll of bandages.

He hears Jaskier settle onto the bed with a sigh that Geralt can't parse and, as Geralt turns towards him, jar of balm and roll of bandages in hand, Geralt sees that his facial expression is equally inscrutable. The candlelight flickers across it turning what looks like a smile in one second to a frown in the next. Though it's not like Geralt has ever been good at reading Jaskier in the first place.

Geralt takes a quiet, deep breath, trying to settle some of the nerves fluttering confusingly in his chest, and moves to sit next to Jaskier on the bed, taking Jaskier's hand in his own once again.

Jaskier inhales softly as Geralt begins to gently rub the disinfecting balm over his scraped, bleeding knuckles, massaging it into the battered skin for longer than he likely needs to, but the longer he keeps his eyes on Jaskier's hand, the less time he needs to spend contemplating Jaskier's eyes on him. He moves on to wrapping the bandage around Jaskier's hand when he reaches a point where adding more balm is as like to cause skin breakdown as prevent infection, and the task is completed sooner than Geralt would like.

"Thank you," Jaskier says, voice barely above a whisper.

Geralt looks up and freezes, breath catching in his lungs at the look Jaskier is giving him.

Jaskier's hand is heavy between Geralt's.

Jaskier's breath quickens.

Geralt leans closer.

Jaskier's eyes drop to Geralt's lips.

A dog barks in the alley outside.

The moment is broken, and Jaskier looks away, fidgeting with the bandage on his hand for something else to focus on.

Geralt stands and tidies away his healing supplies, and they each prepare for bed independently, quietly.

It's not until they're tucked up against each other in the small bed, candles snuffed out, and Jaskier's breaths evening out into sleep, that Geralt realizes what he was seeing in Jaskier's eyes.

Love.

The thought of it scares him less than he thinks it should. He wraps an arm gently around Jaskier's waist, tugging him closer to Geralt's body, and allows himself to drift off, the sound of Jaskier's heartbeat lulling him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This somehow ended up both softer and not as soft as I had intended ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I can be found on Tumblr under the same name for (currently) Witcher shitposts


End file.
